Creating Alec
by LoreliD
Summary: Alec's life was rooted in fear, yet he endured because of love. A single act by his twin sister would transform his vulnerability in to his greatest asset. He would always find solace in the darkness. Companion to "Becoming Jane." M for violence. Canon.
1. Chapter 1

This story is meant to be a companion piece to my other fic, _Becoming Jane_. You don't need to read _Becoming Jane_ to understand what is happening, but they are intended to go together. This story will be posted in three parts. It is rated M for violence and some abuse.

Disclaimer: The Twilight characters aren't mine; I only like to color them in a little.

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Creating Alec

Part One

I will never forget that day, _the_ day that set me irrevocably on the path towards my uninvited and undesired immortality. That day stands out far and above the tedious monotony of the last three centuries. I am inclined to think that it will always remain one of the most significant memories of my entire existence.

After all, burning at the stake isn't something one is likely to forget.

It was a cool day. Cloudy, as I recall. A gentle mist fell, lending me a false sense of hope that maybe the fire wouldn't hurt _as_ much or burn me _as _easily. I was terrified as the executioner strapped Jane and me to the tall wooden pole and hoisted us high above the eagerly shouting crowd of former friends and neighbors. I tried to reach for Jane's hand, needing to borrow strength from her in this most horrible and surreal of moments, but I was tied so tightly I couldn't move my arms. I watched in bewildered horror while the executioner threw bucket after bucket of oily black pitch onto the carefully stacked wood below us. While he lit the pyre evenly on each side, I remember thinking, _how had this come about? What had happened that would lead me to become tied to this stake, above a heap of dry tinder that was about to become a raging inferno? _

I looked out into the crowd and saw the faces of people I'd known my whole life; faces that had once been friendly and caring were now wearing expressions of hateful mistrust. Signore Camarreri, who'd hired me to help harvest grapes in his vineyard the past three summers, now scowled at me, a glowering grimace pulling down the corners of his mouth. Signora Sophia, who had been my mother's closest friend, stood near the front of the horde shouting curses and spitting spitefully at us. Sister Isabella, who had been so kind and generous during my recovery at the abbey, lingered off to the side with her hands clasped in prayer. Still trying to save our souls, even though _she_ was the one who'd condemned us.

The flames grew hotter and higher. They taunted me as they licked my feet and burned the hair on my calves, the smoke swirling like a cyclone around us. I could hear the crowd screaming at my twin sister, Jane, calling her horrible names that made me want to cover my ears and hers. She couldn't possibly be the things they said she was. _Not my odd, rebellious and protective Jane. _At first I couldn't bring myself to believe that she was guilty of the horrible acts of which she'd been accused, even after hearing the evidence at the trial for myself. Now I realized I just didn't _want_ to believe. That had always been my way: hide from the horror, hide from the ugliness, even if it was at the expense of the truth.

So that's exactly what I did while I was tied to that damned stake. I hid. As the crowd screamed louder and the hissing flames crawled and danced up my legs, I folded into myself. I let the familiar, comforting blackness consume me. It worked, until the smoke made me choke, and the pain of my broken ribs as I hacked and coughed was excruciating enough to make me black out in earnest. That was for the better; I had no memory of what happened after the blackness consumed me, until the red burning heat of my transformation temporarily overwhelmed my ability to lock it out.

When I began to feel again, I immediately and desperately wished I couldn't. I assumed, at first, that I was still burning at the stake. I had suffered much in my short life, been broken and battered and bruised at the hands of my father, and had been condemned to suffer the so called purifying fires by my neighbors and their church. However, none of that could remotely compare to the fire I felt eating me alive from the inside out. Naturally, I triggered my defense. I folded in further, deeper than I thought possible, and let the blackness consume me. Yet, even submerged in my black abyss, I wasn't able to completely block out the indescribable pain or memories I was trying so hard to escape from. Every day of my life had been dominated by two of humanity's most basic emotions: fear and love. Fate, it seemed, had dictated that, even in death, I would suffer through continually reliving the horror of one, and the excruciating loss of the other.

It was a hot and dusty July day during the first summer I worked in Signore Camarerri's vineyard. I was going about my business weeding the soft earth between the grape vines when I found my destiny. Or rather, my destiny found me.

On my hands and knees in the soft dirt, I was carefully extracting the weeds and trying not to disturb the roots of the vines they grew around. Out of nowhere, I felt a sharp pain in the rump and I fell forward into the vine in front of me. I spat out a disgusting mouthful of dirt and turned to see who had just kicked me in the rear, and I came face to face with a very defiant white goat. I stood up, wiping the dust off my face and clothes when a girl bounded into view. I recognized her immediately. I'd seen her at church and at the market off and on for years, but considering the social convention in Italy at the time, it wouldn't have been seemly for me to speak to her. I'd often prayed that God would grant me an opportunity to talk to her, or at the very least, find out her name. Her bouncing brunette curls and pale pink cheeks had captured my fancy and she became a nightly star in my innocent dreams. I glanced gratefully up at heaven, God must have answered my prayer at last.

She jogged up to me and the goat; the hem of her green skirt was dusty, and her little feet, bare.

"Did he hurt you?" She asked, panting and winded as she hunched forward, resting her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. I noted one hand held a length of rope tied into a loop with a sturdy knot, presumably for the goat. Her brunette curls bounced and swayed around her flushed face, making her auburn highlights shimmer in the summer sun. "He got out of the pasture again, stupid goat," she huffed in annoyance between hitched breaths, and kept a wary blue eye trained on the black and spotted white goat who was eying us suspiciously from a few feet away.

I stepped toward her, my brain wracking itself to say something, but being face to face with her and hearing her address me directly was more than my inexperienced adolescent nerves could bare at the moment. I decided she'd probably appreciate my help more than any utterances I might mumble. Slowly, so that I didn't startle the goat, and took the rope from her. Just as slowly, I turned toward the goat and took a step forward.

"I'd be careful, he's grumpy," she warned me.

I threw her a look over my shoulder and gestured to my rear. "He made that clear a moment ago." She giggled and I advanced on the goat, the loop ready to toss around his neck as soon as I was close enough. I raised my hands, holding the rope, and moved toward him, my confidence rising as I came within a few feet of where the goat stood. I put my hand out, hoping the _stupid_ goat would allow me to pet it, then perhaps I might easily slip the rope over its head. The 'stupid' goat wanted nothing to do with easy.

It leapt forward with a grace more befitting a gazelle than a common goat. I looked over at her, shrugging my shoulders in defeat. She sighed, snatched the rope from my hands and grudgingly began to run after it, muttering the whole time. Without a thought, I followed her. She obviously needed help, and I very much needed to find out her name. We chased that _very stupid goat_ all over the countryside before we caught him. He finally gave up due to exhaustion. She slipped the rope over his head and smiled with obvious relief that the ordeal was over and bobbed a curtsy to me.

"Thank you for helping me, it would have taken much longer. This is the third time this week."

"It was my pleasure," I said and her brow rose in disbelief. I quickly amended my statement. "Don't misunderstand me, it wasn't a pleasure chasing the goat, but it _was_ a pleasure helping you, Miss...?" I said, boldly requesting her name.

"Francesca. Cesca," she replied and put her hand out to me.

"I'm Alec," I said as I took her hand and bowed slightly.

Soon after, we parted ways. She went in the direction of her family farm and I returned to the vineyard. Signore Camererri was irate when he realized I'd gone missing and Father was furious when the Signore informed him of my disappearance. Needless to say, I was punished. Yet, the lashings didn't impart their usual sting. The lingering feeling of warmth from being with her protected me like a shield. I triggered my defense and blocked out the pain, replacing it with thoughts of her dark curls and cornflower blue eyes. The beating didn't matter. God had answered my prayer. God had brought us together. When she'd placed her tiny hand in mine, I'd held my future in my hand. It unfolded before me like the fronds of a fern uncurling in the sun, lush and bright and ready for a new beginning.

Each day after, I woke with a single thought. _Cesca._ She was always in the foreground of my mind, her voice always whispering to my subconscious. We were only able to see each other when we could arrange to meet in secret. Eventually we agreed that if we were able to sneak away from our homes without attracting attention, we would meet each day at the fallen Cypress tree near the Volterra city wall in the evenings after supper. Many nights, one of us wasn't able to get away, and the other would patiently wait for as long as possible. The nights we were able to meet were my most precious memories. I treasured those moments more than any possession I would ever have. Those forbidden rendezvous were always dominated by chaste and tender kisses followed by solemn vows for the future. Vows that no one heard aside from ourselves, no one but God.

Sometimes, I'd arrive at our tree with a new cut or fresh bruise, and Cesca never failed to notice. Her brow would furrow with concern as I'd lie and explain that my "clumsiness," or other such nonsense had been the catalyst yet again. I hoped that she believed me. It broke my heart to lie to her, but I couldn't possibly be induced to tell her the truth about my father.

My father was a blacksmith, and in the fall of my fourteenth year, he decided to apprentice me in his craft. In all honesty, it was an absurd idea. My gangly and meager adolescent physical strength was in no way suited to the profession. However, as was customary in that time, I was expected to take over the family business. One particular morning, I left the cottage I shared with father and Jane, and made my way toward the high walled city of Volterra. I was running late and father was adamant that I 'stop my daydreaming and become responsible. Determined not to disappoint him (or tempt his anger), I quickly finished my morning chores and hurried off to meet him at the smithy. I kept my eyes on the gravel road and tried to ignore how beautiful the autumn morning was as I made my way to his blacksmith forge. I tried to ignore how the golden wheat fields swayed in graceful rhythm to the soft morning breeze. How the sky was streaked in brilliant fiery orange gashes that cut through the peaceful blue like torn parchment. How the bright crimson Papavero blossoms dotted the hillsides like rubies nestled in the grass.

Beauty always struck me; it struck me dumb, occasionally. Beauty was my escape from a reality filled with drunken, irrational abuse. I couldn't help but notice beauty around me, it was the balm that soothed my soul of the ugly evil I'd seen far too much of in my short fourteen years. The world seemed such a harsh place, that sometimes I found myself amazed that there was anything left of beauty. I had to notice, so that I didn't allow myself to forget that, in the future, my life could be full of beauty, too.

My thoughts drifted back to Cesca as I kicked the dusty pebbles along the road. As soon as I was confident I could provide for her, I would ask her father for her hand. I knew resolutely that I wanted her beside me forever. As I squinted up at the sun gaining purchase in the sky, I vowed to myself to keep her free from the tyrannical hold that my father held over me. I had been doing much thinking about what could be done to keep her away from him and the reality was, I had few choices. In fact, I only saw one realistic option. Once I knew enough about the blacksmith trade, we could flee and I could find work in another village. I couldn't allow him to have regular contact with us or his harsh cruelty would extinguish the brilliant spark of her soul. I simply refused to allow that to happen. Only one thing could ever induce me to violence, and that was defending Cesca. It broke my heart to ask her to give up her family and move, possibly far away. What broke my heart more was the thought of him breaking her spirit.

Although Cesca was foremost in my mind, I deeply regretted that I might have to leave Jane behind. It was a prospect that caused me great grief and tormented me as I lay on my bed at night, endlessly thinking. Leaving my defenseless and diminutive sister to bear _all _of his beatings, _all_ of the suffering alone was not only unthinkable, but mutinous. I had spent so much of my life trying to direct his anger at me that the idea of leaving Jane unprotected and vulnerable made me physically ill. Yet, something told me Jane might be jealous of Cesca and my feelings for her, if Jane were to find out about us.

_Perhaps I should give Jane a choice, ask her if she wants to leave with us._ The notion seemed like a good idea, and if Jane refused, then I'd leave with Cesca feeling confident that I did the right thing. And leave we must, no matter what Jane decided. Distance was the only way to shield Cesca from father's tyranny.

I arrived at the smithy a few minutes late and father was very obviously angry at my tardiness. Fortunately for me, it was too early in the day for him to be drunk and the presence of others kept his hands away from me. I worked diligently all day, never stopping to even eat, in an attempt to appease him for being late. My thoughts strayed to Cesca frequently. We hadn't been able to meet at the tree in several days, and I was a hoping tonight I would see her on my way home. As the sun began to set, father dismissed me, telling me to put my tools away before leaving.

"Get home. Tell Jane to have supper ready," he ordered without looking at me. I shrugged and blew out the candle on my workbench. "Straight home," he commanded firmly as I walked out the door and into the street.

The evening was cool. The rising crescent moon cast a magical silver glow over the quietly rustling trees. I meandered through the streets of the city toward the main gate and relished the crisp autumn air. I passed the Bella Luna Inn and smiled as the merry sounds of good friends laughing and a skillfully strummed lute floated out of the open windows. The tune reminded me of the one I'd always heard Cesca hum softly. The humming was an adorable absentminded habit of hers, and it inspired my feet to move faster toward the fallen tree that had become our confessional. I could always hear her before I'd see her sitting on the fallen Cypress tree, waiting for me. She'd be humming her little melancholic lullaby, the tune that I imagined she hummed while she made bread or washed clothes. It was an endearing trait, and the haunting melody was a part of her that I carried with me constantly.

Francesca's family farm was not far from the city wall, and I stepped off the main road onto a foot path that ran along the edge of her father's goat pasture. The moon was just a sliver of luminescence that cast the boughs of the cypress trees in swaying silver romance. My pace was fast, eager to get to her, to hopefully see her waiting for me. I rounded the last bend in the path before our tree and saw the soft glow of her lantern. My shoulders relaxed. She _had _come. A few more steps and I heard her humming. I passed the last branches that obstructed her from my view, and smiled at the vision before me.

She sat perched daintily on the fallen stump. Her hands were busy as they flitted over her gown and smoothed out the folds of her skirt. Twilight was setting, casting her brown hair in midnight blues and making her fair skin glow in the starlight. The inky blue evening sky was sprinkled with twinkling stars that seemed to smile down on her, and a gentle breeze rustled the trees, blowing tendrils of her hair around her heart shaped face.

Seeing her waiting always produced the same reaction in me. My stomach dropped and my heart skipped, while my feet carried me toward her without needing a command. She heard me approach and looked up. Immediately, she flew to me and stood on her tip toes, throwing her slender arms around my neck. We didn't speak, as I held her to me and buried my face in her chestnut hair; we just held each other and savored the moment. She started to pull away, but I refused. She giggled softly and relaxed against me. I leaned down and kissed her her head back, she looked up at me, and her expression shifted from happiness at seeing me to worry instantly.

"Alec, what happened to your eye?" she asked with alarm, reaching up and brushing my hair away to see my wound better. I evaded her hand and looked up at the trees with a sigh. I'd forgotten the cut on my brow from the other day when I'd overslept. Father woke me up with his belt.

I looked back her."It's nothing, il mio amore," I soothed, looking down at her. "I tripped on a hoe that Jane left on the floor in the barn. I'm fine."

She frowned, and a little "v" formed between her delicate eyebrows, but it was there for only a moment. She pulled away from my embrace and took my hand, leading me toward the tree. She sat down and tugged on my hand, urging me to sit close beside her. I acquiesced readily, yet I could tell by her demeanor, she had something important to say. As I squeezed her hand, I braced myself for her questions.

"Alec," she began sweetly, and I held my breath, "do you trust me?" she asked, meeting my surely shocked gaze.

"Of course I do!" I exclaimed in surprise. "Why would you question that?" I was a little hurt, but I was more desperate to quell any doubts she might have had in me. She began playing with my fingers, a nervous habit of hers that I also found adorable, but it hardly registered in _that_ moment.

"In all the time we've know each other, not once have I seen you trip or stumble. Not even stub your toe," she whispered, her eyes focused on our hands. I could hear her regret in her tone. She didn't want to doubt me. It was foolish of me to believe for a moment that she wouldn't see through my lies.

I sighed heavily. For months I had contemplated how to make her understand why I'd lied to protect her. I had fretted over a way to tell her and yet not make her worry. I realized then that I'd been making her worry all along. I felt her squeeze my hand.

"Alec, I need to know why it is that every time I see you, you have a new cut, or fresh scrape?" Her hands were wringing mine now, and in her voice I recognized a frantic pleading. Still I was reluctant.

"Don't you trust me?" she asked and I didn't miss the heartbreak in her voice.

I was quick to answer. "With my life, Cesca." My tone was colored with desperation for her to believe me.

"Then tell me."

I clenched my eyes shut and began. It was pointless to deny it any longer. "My father... is... a harsh man," I struggled to confess the shameful truth to her, the truth I thought I'd kept so carefully hidden. "He's raised Jane and I with a heavy hand."

She pursed her lips in obvious and undeniable anger. She was about to speak, but I silenced her as I brought my hand to her face and cupped her cheek. My thumb brushed her lips and she didn't speak.

"Don't pity me, Cesca. You've brought love into my life." Her gaze quickly shifted to the ground. She closed her eyes and tried to blink back tears as she leaned her face into my hand.

"We need to get away," she said plainly, like she was saying supper was ready. I looked at her in astonishment. Could she be that willing to leave Volterra? Willing to give up her family and everything she's ever known for _me_? I didn't even have to ask her; she volunteered.

"Are you sure you want to leave with me?" I felt I had to ask her outright, I had to give her the opportunity to walk away. I couldn't begrudge her the family I myself wanted so badly.

She looked up at me and confusion was clear on her face. "My place is with you. I love you, Alec. Don't you understand that?"

"I don't know how far we'll go, you may never see your parents again. Your brothers and sist-"

"Shhhh, husband," she cooed. Of course I wasn't her husband yet, but her use of the term meant she felt that way already. Gently, she brought the back of my hand to her face, and brushed against her cheek.

"That's why I want to wait, just until I am sure that I can take care of you," I finished in a broken whisper, and brought my other hand up to cradle her face in my hands. I kissed her with reverence for her loyalty and innocence. This kiss felt entirely different from any other we'd stolen before. The whispered devout vows we'd made colored the kiss with commitment and urgency that hadn't surrounded us in the past.

I heard a twig snap suddenly, and I ripped my lips away from the kiss, away from her. I peered into the darkness in the direction I thought the noise had come from, but was unable to see anything. The breeze picked up just then, obscuring any other sounds I might have heard as the wind rustled the leaves on the trees around us. A feeling of fear crept over me and I remembered with horror that I was supposed to go straight home. I'd forgotten my father's instructions and, in his eyes, disobeyed him. There would be hell to pay, chances were Jane was paying now.

"Cesca, I must go. I forgot he ordered me straight home," I said abruptly and stood up, immediately hating the worried "v" that creased her brow. I continued before she could ask questions. "Please, love, don't worry. I'll be all right." I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth. She understood then and stood to kiss me again.

"Go. I'll look for you tomorrow," she whispered and wrapped her arms fervently around me. I held her back with equal affection.

"Until tomorrow," I assured her before releasing her, spinning on my heel and jogging off.

I was still some distance from the cottage when I could hear the shattering of glass and muffled curses floating out into the night. My heart sank with remorse when I realized that Jane was taking the brunt of my father's anger for my careless mistake. I instantly broke into a full run towards the cottage. I threw open the door and braced myself for my father's wrath, but when I looked around the tiny room, I didn't see him, I only saw Jane. She was a frazzled mess, her usually tidy braids were disheveled, her eyes were focused and her mouth was set in bitterness as she scrambled to start cooking the evening meal. Before I could ask where he was, I heard his approach behind me; he been behind the door I'd flung open.

He put a heavy hand on the door, slamming it shut with a brutal shove. "Off day dreaming again, boy?" he asked menacingly, instantly followed by the crack of leather strap he'd had hidden behind his back. I felt a searing sting as it slapped against my shoulder. I could tell by the pain it wasn't his belt he was hitting me with. In his hand he held his favorite device for beating us, an old length of leather from a horse's bridle. It was a weapon he reserved for special occasions and at seeing it, the confrontation took on a new severity. Instinctively I moved away from him, turning my body to protect my face, and raised an arm to protect my face. Jane's scowl darkened but she stayed focused on her task. She knew from experience that to get involved would only make it worse for both of us.

Experience had taught me a great deal. I knew not to answer his questions, because no answer I could give would be acceptable and my insolence would only enrage him further. I knew that it was still early enough that he would be somber, which meant that his anger would not be tempered by drink, and his aim would not be affected by it either. Yes, I knew from experience that this was going to be a bad beating as I felt the searing sting of his blows. The cutting words he uttered while applying the lash, though, made this the worst beating I had ever experienced.

"I saw you with _her_," he growled as he pulled his arm back, readying for another blow. I backed up toward the wall, bumping into the kitchen table and sending a clay pitcher crashing to the ground. I hated the way he said _her_, as if speaking her name would cause Lucifer to appear before us, but still I didn't say anything.

"Tell me I'm a liar," he dared with a sneer and struck again, hitting my left hand.

I say nothing to the contrary.

"I forbid you to see her," he commanded. This time, I turned to look at him, my brow wrinkled in confusion as if he'd just spoken a foreign language. The concept of not seeing Cesca was not within my realm of consciousness.

"What did you say?" I mumbled.

"Her mother is a whore," he said with a knowing smirk, "and bitches beget bitches," he murmured and smirked as my face contorted in anger.

I stood up and faced him. I couldn't allow him to sully her, dirty her perfection with his ignorant, slanderous tongue.

"Father, _no_." I could feel the tendons in my hands contracting of their own accord, my fingers curling slowly into fists. I clenched my lids shut, Cesca's face, the face I lived to see everyday, the face that I endured everyday _for_, appeared behind them. A moment appeared from earlier in the evening, when she was staring down at my hands, playing with them, a soft smile on her lips and the moonlight shining on her hair.

"Has she spread her legs for you like a bitch in heat?" he taunted cruelly. My vision began to blur with rage and his words forced bile to rise in my throat.

"I'm warning you, father, tread carefully," I said as I squared my shoulders and faced him.

"Are you threatening me, boy?" he smiled as if he'd been waiting for my challenge for eons.

So many times I had wished for this moment, dreamed of standing up to him and freeing myself from his relentless control and regular abuse. I had never been sure I had the courage before, but with his filthy mouth and disgusting accusations, he had defiled her innocence and given me the strength I needed.

"No more," I muttered and threw my clenched fist at his jaw. I missed his jaw, but managed to hit his eye. He stumbled and I quickly hit him in the gut with my other fist. It was all for naught. The reach of his leather strap was much longer than the reach of my arm. Once he'd recovered himself from my inexperienced blows, he thrashed me about my head and the only choice I had then was to protect myself from him. The thought of running crossed my mind, but I abandoned it instantly. I couldn't leave until Cesca was my wife. Leaving now wouldn't serve anything, except prove the cowardice my father suspected me of.

He lashed me again and again, and I backed away, knowing there wasn't anywhere to hide. I tripped on something, causing me to fall to the floor. Then, immediately, I felt a kick to my stomach. In the same instant, and a searing slap from his strap lashed across the hand that covered my face. I started counting the lashes, that way I could gauge how close I was coming to the end, but he had already gotten about a dozen lashes in. He was kicking me as well; that had never happened before.

He was relentless. Lash upon lash he whipped me with that worn out leather reign, each sting of the strap whipping a piece of my manhood out from my soul. I had tried to stand up to him, and I had failed. I felt hot, silent tears falling across the bridge of my nose and to the wooden floor. They weren't tears of pain or even anger. They were full of nothing but my failure.

I curled up, and started to fade into my familiar welcoming nothingness, and thought of her. With every blow, Cesca's face became more vivid behind my closed lids. The last thing I saw was Jane stepping between us, his strap hitting her as he tried to reach around her to get at me. Jane's little face was emblazoned with fury, a wrathful angel of protection who stood firmly between me and my demon.

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A/N

This fic has been nursed along by several people. I'd like to say thanks to my betas, LightStardusting and KrisBCullen. Also thanks to my prereaders and those of you who've been particularly encouraging: Izzzyy, Starshinedown, Hmonster4, TheHeartOfLife, Venti_Turtl and TwilightJems.


	2. Chapter 2

Ummmm...yeah. I know it's been forever since I updated this fic. This canon historical emo stuff is HARD, Okay? ;) Seriously though, thanks for sticking with me, folks.

I still don't own twilight or anything about it.

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**Part Two**

The inferno inside me raged on, so furious and devastating that I wondered if it would ever stop. I didn't think a lack of fuel would bring an end the relentless burning pain. I concentrated on the black abyss in my mind, and dredged up another memory. At least that way I could escape the agonizing hell I was enduring.

The days that followed the beating, I drifted in and out of consciousness. Every time reality forced its way through my protective black oblivion, I saw the same face. A woman's face, aged and worn, yet still soft and kind. One whose eyes were concerned, and whose voice spoke in soft whispers. My waking moments were always accompanied by pain as I was turned in my bed or as the bandages I vaguely sensed enshrouding me were changed. Those kind, small brown eyes would look down into mine with guarded compassion. Her presence also meant that I must not be at home, for there was no chance father would allow me to be coddled in such a way. I continued to take refuge in the self-imposed darkness of my mind to mask the throbbing and aching sensations gripping my body. The blackness never failed to comfort me.

I'm not sure how many days had passed before I finally opened my eyes and was cognizant enough to wonder where I was. I saw the sympathetic face watching me with worried concern, the crow's feet around her small brown eyes crinkled as she observed me carefully. Her thin lips, set between softly weathered cheeks, were smiling gently at me.

"Alec, I am Sister Isabella," she began. "You are in the infirmary at the abbey."

I nodded my head as well as I could. "How long have I been here?" My voice, weak and gritty with disuse, was hardly more than a whisper. The Sister offered me a cup of water which I promptly brought to my lips. My hands were a ghastly site, heavily bandaged and lacerated where the bandages didn't cover my skin. My arms had taken the brunt of his lashings. I turned my eyes away to inspect my surroundings. I was in a large room; the stone floor and walls kept it cool and damp. A handful of empty beds lined the wall on my left. The wall opposite had three large and imposing Gothic leaded glass and wrought iron windows which the sunlight filtered through in bright rays.

"Three days," she answered as I drank.

"Where is Jane?" I asked when I'd finished; I was terrified of what could have happened to her after I escaped into my own darkness. Father would not have hesitated to make both of us suffer.

"She is also here," she answered.

"Why is she not at home, with Father?" I probed. Sister Isabella's expression shifted infinitesimally, a strange sympathy filling her eyes.

"Alec," she replied. "There was… an accident. At the river..." She hesitated as she finished, her eyes darting around the room as if to make sure she wasn't overheard.

"Is Jane alright?" I asked, my brow automatically puckering with worry despite my painfully swollen left eye.

"She's fine, just fine," the Sister soothed. "But your father - " She started but stopped; it was as if she struggled to find the right words. Suddenly every nerve in my body was taut. Her demeanor sparked my intuition; my father was not well, something was amiss. _Was this what it feels like to stand on the precipice of a future you've prayed for? This fullness in my chest…is this the feeling of hope that the chains of your bondage might finally fall away?_

"_What_ of my father, Sister?" I pressed eagerly.

"He fell in the water, hitting his head." Her tone was full of concerned condolence. "He's with our Lord, in Heaven," she finished and crossed herself with her calloused hand. I personally hoped St. Peter wouldn't allow him entrance.

A great whoosh of air escaped my lungs, and for the first time in my life, I completely exhaled. I was free of my father. Cesca would be free from my father, and Jane would as well. Had I not been confined to a bed and under the watchful eyes of the Sister, I could have danced with pure joy. It was almost too surreal and wonderful to be true, the fruition of a nightly prayer I'd offered earnestly and humbly to God. I couldn't help the slow smile that began to spread across my face. Who wouldn't smile when they were told they had finally been given their liberty?

When I looked at Sister Isabella, she was watching me closely, her lips drawn into a thin line as she tried to understand why a son would smile upon learning of his father's death.

"May I see Jane?" I asked, as I calmed my expression and tried to shift her focus to something else.

She shook her head no before answering. "I feel it would be better to wait until you are a little stronger, Alec. I assure you, Jane is fine. Rest and get well. That's all you need worry about," she said as she rose from the chair beside the bed. With a slight nod, she turned and left. I drifted easily off to sleep after that. My body was eager to experience the bliss of peaceful rest, without the ever-present awareness that even sleep had never been able to extinguish. Father had woken me from a dead sleep before with slurred vulgar words and the back of his hand, but now I could rest without fear, without nightmares and without dreading each day of my future. The cathedral bells chimed out a sad hymn that reminded me of Cesca's humming and before long I was dreaming of her, sitting in the sunshine and smiling.

With the knowledge that I no longer had anything to fear from my father, I reveled in a new sense of freedom. Even though I was restricted to the confines of the abbey infirmary, I felt full of hope and happiness, more than I'd imagined was possible. The future I wanted was so very close, and it meant Cesca wouldn't have to make sacrifices, nor would Jane. Lost in my daydreams, time seemed to pass swiftly. Drifting in and out of sleep, my body healed, the broken ribs mended and the myriad stripes of sickening black faded to yellow and began to disappear.

Often when I woke, Sister Isabella would be in the chair near the foot of the bed, praying or quoting Scripture. Her worn rosary beads wrapped around one hand and the glow of candlelight flickered over her weather-worn face. I knew all the passages by heart. A few Christmases before, Cesca had given me a Bible which I kept hidden in the barn, and I'd sneak off whenever I could to read through the ancient text. Yet, I gave Sister no indication I knew the verse. Instead I stayed quiet and let her soft, calming voice lull me back to sleep.

A certain familiarity grew between us and I wondered if it was the same feeling a mother's attention would inspire. Somehow I doubted it, because while Sister Isabella was kind and attentive, she wasn't exactly maternal. She was a dutiful and pious nun in a time when piety could mean life or death. I never blamed her for what happened. I understood it was her duty and she was a pawn of the dark times that surrounded us. Unfortunately for Sister Isabella, Jane wasn't as forgiving.

One late afternoon she brought two men with her to my bedside. I was unable to see their faces; their heads were shrouded by the thick hoods of their dark cloaks. I looked questioningly at Sister Isabella as she introduced them to me.

"Signore Aro, Signore Eleazar, this is Jane's brother, Alec," she said briefly.

"How do you do, Signores?" I offered weakly. Sister Isabella stepped back, out of Signore Aro's way, as he drew back his hood and came forward to my bedside. Signore Aro's white claw of a hand was outstretched, reaching for mine. His appearance was _unnatural,_ his skin had a papery translucence I'd never seen before, not even in the oldest person I knew. It wasn't until he was directly beside me however and I noticed his blood red eyes that true terror gripped me. I laid there, frozen and speechless, as he took my hand up in his icy cold grip, while the well known stories of the red-eyed Stregoni ran unchecked though my imagination.

"Do not be frightened, my child," he cooed. "I only want to offer my condolences to you and your sweet sister, Jane," he explained. His voice wasn't what I would have expected, considering his frightful appearance.

"Thank you, Signore," I replied, on my guard and wishing he'd release my hand. Instinct told me to be cautious as fear rippled through me. I imagined it was a similar sensation to the fear that prey feel in the moment they lock eyes with their predator. At least prey usually had the chance to attempt to run, to flee and possibly escape with its life. Not I. I was trapped in that bed. Trapped in his grip.

"It distressed me so to hear of your plight," he said with pity, before his tone suddenly brightened. "I'd like to help you and dear Jane, my young friend." I detected a slight trace of genuine interest in our well-being, but I was wary. His pity a moment before had seemed forced; it had certainly dissipated quickly. He wanted something, although I couldn't imagine _what_. I had no idea who the rightful owner of our father's estate was, but even so the assets of the estate were laughable at best. Father drank his money away.

"That's very generous of you, Signore, but I assure you, we'll be taken care of," I lied. I hadn't the foggiest notion how, but I certainly didn't want to be indebted to _him_.

"Alec, I'm not sure you realize the severity of your situa-"

"We'll make do, Signore," I interrupted. I had no intention of accepting his help, his red eyes told me that to do so, I would spend my life in abysmal servitude. Having just been granted my freedom, I was, needless to say, reluctant. I pulled my hand out of his grasp and slid it under the blankets.

He chuckled in soft encouragement. "Of course you will, young friend, of course you will. I have every faith in you." His gaze shot through me and while he smiled I sensed a double meaning in his words.

"I'll take my leave. You need plenty of rest to recover," he said and turned to leave, the silent Signore Eleazar in tow. He stopped in the doorway and faced me once more. "Should you ever be in need of my assistance, you have but to ask." I nodded stiffly, certain that even if I faced my own death, I'd never request his help.

That night, I didn't sleep. Despite my weary body, my troubled mind would not rest. Signore Aro's visit had set my mind to considering the very real facts that awaited Jane and I outside the abbey walls. Realities such as where would we live, how we would survive. I hadn't any idea of the financial condition my father's property was in. He might have owed taxes or debts in the village, and I hadn't the foggiest idea about the viability of the Smithy. Ironic that my future was finally mine, but I wasn't sure if I had the means to reach out and grasp it. It was possible I had nothing to offer Cesca, no guarantee that I could afford to provide for her, and that her family might not see the match as advantageous for her. There was a very real chance that her father might refuse me when I asked for her hand.

My heart heavy, I sighed, understanding my future with Cesca might be pushed further away again. The moonlight filtered through the Gothic leaded glass windows intermittently; misty grey clouds blotted out its silver luminosity before floating away to hide the stars from view. I closed my eyes, determined to sleep and filled my mind with memories of past meetings with Cesca at our tree. The evening dew of twilight falling over the woods around us as we whispered to each other by starlight. My lips brushing against her soft cheek. Those memories brought forth my favorite tune, the one she used to hum. A small smile graced my lips with the thought, and I too hummed the melody. Our duet was what finally allowed me to fall into slumber. I could always count on her to lead me back to my dreams.

Early into the morning hours after I'd finally won the battle over insomnia, I was awoken by the crackling of nearby thunder. The windows shook from the thunder's vibration and torrential sheets of rain bombarded the thick paned glass. Between the angry booms, I heard voices down the hallway behind my bed. Two voices, speaking in low, hurried tones. Their tones sounded frantic and at first I thought perhaps the churchyard was flooding or something equally disastrous. I strained to listen to their hushed words over the fury of the storm.

"I caught her about to drown a kitten...she was about to throw it into the well," a familiar voice said.

The other person gasped in disbelief. "That's the mark of the devil, that is. What person would murder a kitten?"

An angry cackle of thunder ripped through the air and I couldn't hear for a moment. I carefully leaned around the side of my headboard, and waited for the lightning that would soon follow.

"The witness said _she _did it?" the same disbelieving voice asked in utter horror. "What's to become of her?"

I heard a heavy sigh. A flash of harsh lightning exploded, illuminating the hallway behind me from whence the voices came. It was Sister Isabella that answered.

"She's to be tried for murder, and Mother Superior is considering adding witch-" the thunder interrupted the good Sister and I didn't need to hear the rest.

Scooting back down into the bed, I wondered what poor soul could be facing such a fate. Surely anyone guilty of murder deserved the harshest penalty. Yet, growing up as I did, I knew sometimes people were driven to commit a crime in order to survive. Sometimes, dire necessity dictated extreme action.

In the care of the good sisters, I continued to heal over the days that followed. Through their constant and unwavering attention, my body was nourished back to health. Through their prayers, my soul was given over to God once again. I let them save my soul, for I believed that God had delivered me from bondage. He had, at last, answered the earnest nightly prayer I'd offered to Heaven before crawling into the cold bed that had never been a place of respite. Now, I could sleep easy; I didn't have to be afraid anymore.

Sister Isabella would come and sit with me as often as her duties allowed. I confess it wasn't as often as I would have liked, but I was well aware that the demands on her time never ceased. When she could catch a few moments between chores and mass to sit with me she'd tell me the news and gossip of the village, at least everything that was proper for her to repeat. I'd ask about Jane and hint about seeing her soon. That's when Sister Isabella would extract her Bible from the fold of her habit and start reading verses.

Recently those demands had increased and I had begun to overhear more whispers about the murder in the village. However, I wondered who the unfortunate victim could be. Volterra was a quiet village in which everyone knew each other. I didn't give it too much thought. I was too preoccupied with wondering why Cesca hadn't made any effort to contact me. Of course, I knew it would be difficult for her; sneaking away to meet at our tree was a much easier feat than sneaking into the abbey to visit me.

Yet, I felt certain that my father's death must be well known throughout the village; news traveled quickly in Volterra. _She must know what had happened, she must be wondering what's become of me._ I imagined my whereabouts were just as commonly known as my father's passing.

I was tempted to write her a letter. I considered asking Sister Isabella for some parchment and a quill and inkpot. I grew excited by the prospect, until I realized I had no way to deliver my note. I couldn't address it to her - that would be too bold. _Perhaps Jane would deliver it for me; if I could see Jane, perhaps I could convince her._ I quickly decided that not only would I ask Sister Isabella for writing accouterments, but I'd also ask if I could see Jane that afternoon. After all, I hadn't seen her once since we'd come to the abbey. It was only right we be allowed to visit. I was sure she was as worried about me as I was about her.

When the Sister brought me my noon meal, I took my opportunity. She placed the wooden tray across my lap and sat in her usual place. I debated how to ask her for what I wanted; she would want to know to the intended recipient. I shut my eyes and bent my head as she said the routine blessing for my meal.

_Amen. "_Thank you, Sister," I said when she'd finished.

She only nodded shortly and moved to the chair. She sat there stiffly and obviously awkward. Not her usual manner at all. She fidgeted, unsure of what to do with her hands. I wondered why she simply didn't take out her rosary like I'd seen her do many times and let her faith heal her worry. With a wrinkled brow, I broke apart the bread and dipped it in the hot broth , waiting for her to speak. When she didn't, I decided to inquire about writing implements.

"I'd like to write a letter," I stated as I brought the roll to my mouth and took a healthy bite. Her head cocked to one side.

"To whom?" she, of course, asked.

I chewed the mouthful of bread before answering her casually. "A friend. I'd like some of my clothes from the cottage." I shrugged.

Her lips pursed in disapproval, but curiosity flickered in her eyes. "All right," she relented easily, her curiosity winning out over propriety. "After your soup," she promised.

Expecting me to hide the grin that stretched across my face was impossible. I dug into my watery soup with new vigor and began composing my note in my mind. I'd tell her I missed her terribly, and how I longed to hear her hum her quiet tune and feel her little hand inside of mine. I made quick work of my food. The Sister took my tray and before long returned with parchment, a quill and an ink pot. As she was about to leave, Sister Marguerite came running to her in a frazzled state.

"Sister Isabella, come quickly! There's a fire in the courtyard!" Then she bent toward Isabella's ear and began whispering. Sister Isabella's face swiftly turned to righteous anger, mixed with an expression I didn't understand, given that fire was usually considered a dangerous thing. Without a word, she turned on her heel and stormed away, Sister Marguerite jogging after her to keep pace.

Perplexed and wondering if I should get out of bed and dress myself, I looked down at the smooth blank parchment before me. While the fire was important, it didn't seem as though I was in any immediate danger and my letter was the most pressing matter, at least in my eyes. I had to get a message to Cesca. I snatched up my quill and laid the parchment on the tray setting the soup bowl to the side, and began writing in my thick scrawl.

_Dearest Cesca,_

_It feels as though it's been years since we last saw each other and I miss you terribly. I'm sure you know my father is dead. His death changes everything. I hope you can find an excuse to get away and come visit me at the abbey. Perhaps the future we've dreamed of can begin sooner than we expected, my love. Please come, I need to hear your sweet voice, your soothing hum._

_Your Devoted Alec_

I blew on the paper to help the ink dry faster, before hastily folding the note and put on the bed beside me. I heard shouting from the courtyard and thought that perhaps if I stood upon the chair, I'd be able to see out of the high windows. My curiosity got the better of me and I went about it quickly. Standing on the rickety wooden chair and leaning against the damp stone wall, my head was just high enough to peer through the thick uneven panes of medieval glass. It was difficult to make out anything more than blurred indistinct objects through the window, but the nuns were easy to distinguish in their black habits, floating about the bright courtyard like the shadows of dark dreams. All the way across the courtyard, I could make out the glowing bright flames of the fire, but it seemed like a rather insignificant little campfire. _Why was there so much screeching going on? _

The angry clicking of shoes on the stone floor told me that indeed something very bad must have happened, for there was fury in the sound of these steps. I hopped down to the floor as fast as my injuries would allow and pulled the chair away from the window, returning it to its post. Both Sister Isabella and Sister Marguerite came into view, Isabella's face splotchy red and huffing like a bull, Marguerite's eyes flitting nervously from mine to Isabella's.

She spied the folded note lying on the bed and snatched it up. Unfolding it with rough hand, she quickly read its contents and shot me an accusing glance.

"You wrote this to Cesca? Cesca Moretti?" she questioned.

"Yes."

"There's no mention of bringing you clothes." Silence filled the space between us, and I felt as though she was waiting for an explanation. I had none to offer. She sighed heavily. "I abhor deceit, Alec," she warned and my guilty gaze dropped to the floor.

"This cannot be delivered to her," she continued and promptly tore up my note. I stared at her, growing angrier by the second. I knew writing to Cesca was considered improper, but I was becoming desperate to see her.

"Sister, as you gathered from the meaning in the note, I have important matters to discuss with her. I assure you, my intentions are honorable and we've committed no indiscretions. If I may simply speak with -"

"It's not possible, Alec. She cannot be brought here," she said. Impatiently, she handed the pieces of my note off to Sister Marguerite, presumable for disposal and waved her hand as if the matter of vital importance we were discussing was merely a trifling thing.

"I must insist that I be allowed to communicate with her." She was the point of light in which my life orbited, I _had_ to see her. It was imperative that I see her blue eyes and hear her hum her little tune.

"She died of scarlet fever the day after you came here," Isabella blurted. The force of her blunt explanation knocked the wind out of me. My ears hurt as if they fought against hearing her words and attempted to push them away. It didn't make any sense. I had seen Cesca the evening before her supposed passing and she was fine. Such an illness would last for days. _She's lying._

"I don't believe you," I whispered.

"Her funeral was at the cathedral, surely you heard the bells."  
_  
The bells. The song that played and sounded so much like hers, but not quite. Not quite._

I sank into the blackness, mentally screaming at God to show some mercy and take me now. I tried not to think of Cesca. I wouldn't, _couldn't_ allow myself to see her face behind my closed eyes, as I had every other time I took refuge from reality. I craved that comfort I had unknowingly become addicted to. Forcing myself not to fall into my habit of seeking comfort in the image of her flowing brown hair and blue eyes shining at me. She had been my reason for living. Now she was the reason I was praying for death.

I would never have guessed that not even Death would have mercy on me.

* * *

One more part to go!

Thanks to Lightstartdusting and KrisBCullen, I'd be so lost on this one without both of you.

Thanks to all of you supporting this fic and putting up with my wonky schedule. I'm much more timely on my collabs, thanks to Lightstardust.

There is a lot going on in this section behind the scenes that you may have questions about. Please don't hesitate to ask me. I love talking to my readers.

xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

This story is meant to be a companion piece to my other fic, _Becoming Jane_. You don't need to read _Becoming Jane_ to understand what is happening, but they are intended to go together. This story will be posted in three parts. It is rated M for violence and some abuse.

Disclaimer: The Twilight characters aren't mine; I only like to color them in a little.

There will be a part 4.

* * *

Part 3

I wasn't sure how much time had passed when I woke, but it was immediately obvious my circumstances had changed. When my eyes opened, I found myself in a little room devoid of comfort and sunlight. I had no idea when I'd been moved here or why. The room they put me in was damp and cold and I suspected I was deep below the abbey, near the church's wine cellar perhaps. Rats ran everywhere; their scurrying could be heard constantly in the dark. And it was so very dark. I was used to that, however, and its inky blackness offered a familiar comfort. I still wore the nightclothes I'd been given when I first came to the abbey but the thin linen did little to warm me. A flat, musty pillow and small straw palette served as my bed; I spent most of the time huddled under the wool blanket trying not to think, which was useless. It was impossible to when the hours carried me from day to night and back again.

Sister Isabella never came. I prayed that she would; I needed her to explain what had happened, to tell me why I was being treated like a criminal.

It would seem I'd been left.

Disregarded.

Thrown away.

They sent the groundskeeper down with food and water for me. I never touched the bread and apples he left as I had no appetite. While I lay shivering on my straw pallet, I couldn't help but replay the last memorable event in my mind. I fought it, pushed it away, refused to face it until her blue eyes and loving look made me wretch for the loss of her. Her death - a reality I would never willingly believe - continually forced itself on me, insisting that I acknowledge it. My grief consumed me and death would have been a welcome reprieve from this new reality.

Once, only once, I caught myself whisper her name under my breath. At the sound, I immediately felt the cost of my mistake; my soul couldn't take it. I retreated to the dark.

Bound in shackles, I was finally led out of my cell and up to the church. The same groundskeeper put me in a wood paneled room with hard benches to wait. He gave a me parting look as he left me, one full of fear and suspicion, crossing himself repeatedly as he departed. The room had two doors opposite each other, the one I had come in and another larger one. I could hear voices speaking in low, serious tones as I moved closer. I stooped to look through the keyhole and saw Jane.

I realized what was happening then; she was on trial. My hands began to shake with fear, and the clink of my iron chains reminded me that I must be accused of something too. I pressed my face harder against the door, anxious to discover the crimes we'd been wrongfully accused of. I focused on my sister, hoping her countenance would help me understand.

Jane stood stiffly on a raised podium in front of the room, the accustomed place of the accused. She held her head high and proud; her expression revealed nothing to the court…or to me It had been some time since I'd seen her, and my critical brotherly eye took in all the details. She was dressed in rags and looked pale and thin which I attributed to a lack of decent food. But, for all her slight, seemingly fragile stature, Jane looked composed.

Defiant.

Proud.

_But what was she accused of_?

"Sister, you say there is a witness to this girl's acts of malice?" the Bishop, seated at a raised desk in the middle of the room, asked Sister Isabella.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Will the witness come forward?" the Bishop requested. A man whom I didn't recognize stood and removed his hat.

"You can give testimony that this girl has committed a crime against God?" the Bisop questioned the witness.

"Aye."

"What did you observe, Signore?"

"If it pleases your Grace, I saw her," he pointed at Jane, "Hit her father with a stone." He glared, full of judgment and disgust. There was a collective gasp of shock from the spectators. Sister Isabella's head dropped. Jane's expression remained unchanged; her face angelic. It was difficult to keep _my _countenance, however. I pressed my face harder into the door, eager to hear more and terrified of the truth, simultaneously. I refused to believe it could be true. Jane couldn't hurt anyone. It wasn't in her. She'd never shown herself to be cruel or vindictive to me.

_Not to me. _

_But others?_

"Continue," the Bishop requested with a critical eye, giving the man his full attention.

"I was gathering kindling near the river's edge when I saw them. She was following behind him when he slipped and fell in the water."

I nodded; I'd been told that's what happened. I turned my head and put my ear to the keyhole; my heart was pounding so hard I was having trouble hearing what was happening.

"Did she attempt to assist him?" the Bishop asked.

"No," the man answered.

"No?" The Bishop's eyes flew to Jane with piercing accusation. "What _did_ she do?" he asked again.

"She kicked him, and when he put out his hand in need of her help..." the man faltered for a moment, visibly disturbed as he spoke. "...She struck him in the skull with the stone."

"Struck him once?" the Bishop pressed.

"No, more than once. She kept on until he stopped fighting her. And then she... she bent over and... tasted the blood." Shock rippled through the people in attendance. The Bishop's eyes turned on Jane and looked on her with a new revulsion. Sister Isabella covered her mouth with her handkerchief, her eyes cast up to Heaven.

I fought the bile that rose in my throat at the repulsive thought of Jane doing any of the things which the man had accused, My mind fought the words it was processing and my ears felt as though they were burning in their effort to block out what they were hearing. Through a fog of disbelief I heard the Bishop ask the man to be seated and requested Sister Isabella to rise and give her testimony.

"This girl and her brother have been in your charge since their father's death, is that correct?"

"Yes, your Grace," she answered solemnly.

"The girl claims that their father beat them. She says she was fearful for her and her brother's life. Can you verify these claims?"

"Yes, your Grace. When they arrived at the abbey, Alec was badly beaten. He had many bruises and some broken bones."

"Did he tell you it was his father who had beaten him?"

"Errr...No, he didn't, your Grace." The Bishop's brow furrowed as his quill scratched across the parchment before him.

"What cause do you have to suspect witchcraft where these children are concerned?" he continued.

"They act...unnaturally," she said as she fidgeted with her handkerchief.

He leaned forward in his seat. "In what manner do they act unnaturally, Sister?" She had his full attention, as well as mine.

The Sister glanced briefly at Jane before starting. "On two occasions, I've caught Jane torturing animals. Upon one instance, she intended on throwing a kitten into the abbey well. On the second, I caught her burning rats and mice alive. I know not any young girl who could be so cruel and heartless unless she'd been bewitched."

"And her brother? What of his unnatural acts?"

I stopped breathing and strained to listen, unable to tear my eye away from the keyhole. The Sister shifted her weight, dabbing at her forehead with her handkerchief and paused for a moment as if she were reflecting.

"He goes into trances, my Grace, for days at a time."

"Trances? Explain."

"It's as if he is dead, yet, his eyes do not close and his breath does not cease. He doesn't speak, nor does he sleep and he refuses his food. He cannot be roused from it, for we have tried every device we know of." Her words tumbled out quickly and I would have been suspicious of her motive if not for the subtle current of genuine fear in her wavering voice. She avoided looking at Jane again.

"He refuses food? How so, Sister? If he is incapacitated..."

"He pushes our hands away when we try to feed him. He becomes rather...agitated..." she answered.

"How do you mean, Sister? You must tell God the truth, therefore, I advise you to be forthcoming," he reminded sternly.

"He fights us off swinging his arms as if striking at us. However, if it pleases your Grace, I always felt he did this to protect himself because he was accustomed to be beaten. Perhaps defense has become his first instinct." Her eyes became soft as she said this, and her contradictory actions confused me. If she felt sorry for me, why was she accusing me of such horrible sins?

The Bishop, however was not as understanding. "Sister Isabella, that is absurd. His 'trances' _are_ an act of diabolism. Otherwise how could one refuse food and sleep and still remain strong enough to resist you? His strength comes from the evil that fills his soul. Just as it does his sister's."

I heard his words, spoken with absolute conviction, and terror gripped me. This man, this person the church decided to give authority to, held my life in his hands. Hands which were clumsy and big and ignorant as he pointed at Sister Isabella to stress his ridiculous argument. I started to sink then. To fall. Willingly. To not care anymore. Perhaps all the days I had spent in that damp cell praying to die would release me from this life without _her_. Maybe God would be merciful. I thought of her round cheeks, her sweet, soft lips and hoped the end would come swiftly so that we'd be reunited in Heaven. I was positive that's where I'd go, no matter what any of the supposedly pious people around me thought my fate should be.

Faintly, I heard the Bishop order Sister Isabella to return to her seat. Even more faintly, I heard the shuffling of feet and Jane's shackles clinking as she was taken from the room. The door opened. I was pushed through it and toward the stand. The room was bright; sunlight poured in, magnifying reality with its harshness. Everything my eyes fell upon seemed to blur despite the light. My mind, already so tired and fatigued, was unable to process much more. It was seeking its refuge, wanting to go and hide. How I dearly wanted to let it.

"Boy, your sister says you were both beaten by your father regularly. Is it so?" the Bishop asked.

"Yes." My eyes stayed determinedly fixed on the knot in the wooden floorboard beneath my feet. I tried to concentrate on it instead of allowing the blackness to come.

"There is no law against raising a child with a firm hand." The Bishop's statement was confirmed by a murmur of approval from the small crowd present. I had a vague urge to argue that broken ribs don't constitute "raising" but I thought better of it.

"Sister Isabella has testified that when you came to the abbey, you had some injuries. How did you get them?"

I couldn't help my reply."My father was raising me, your Grace."

He was unaffected. "What did you do that made him act so?"

My stomach dropped. I didn't want to mention anything whatsoever about Cesca. She was gone, and I'd take our secret to my death, which, wasn't far off. I remained silent and sullen.

"Answer me, boy! Why was your father so angry?"

I met his piercing gaze but still I said nothing. The Bishop huffed in annoyance then a small smile lit his wrinkled old face.

"Were you aware that on the morning of his death, your father visited the home of Francesca Marino?"

Frozen, I could not answer. Of course, I didn't know this. I was recovering from his beating; I was in my safe place. I couldn't say _that,_ of course. The haze was getting thicker, the blackness coming closer. I wanted it, yearned for it to take me away from what I was hearing. All I could do was answer no. My lips made the proper movement but no sound came out. I was fading and the Bishop was ruthless.

"The day after that visit, Francesca was found dead. She'd hung herself. Do you know anything about that? How are you connected to her?"

_Suicide? Impossible! Damn his black heart, and mine too. I should never risked her in such a foolish way. _

"Answer me, boy!" The Bishop demanded.

I barely heard him. Quickly, my mind made its own conclusions. My father had gone to Cesca's house and told her parents our secret. With her virtue and chastity in question, she took her life to preserve her family's honor. Her blood was on his hands, and mine too. For a moment, I was glad that Jane had killed him, if that was indeed the truth. If our death was the punishment of that act, so be it. I was ready. I had no care anymore for where I was or what was happening; I allowed myself to surrender to the comfort of the dark.

* * *

All of my beta and pre-reader love to Lightstardusting and TheHeartOfLife. They hold my heart in their hands. Thank you, loves.

Thank you to all of you for having patience with me and for reading. I love each of you.


	4. Chapter 4

This story is meant to be a companion piece to my other fic, _Becoming Jane_. You don't need to read _Becoming Jane_ to understand what is happening, but they are intended to go together. It is rated M for violence and some abuse.

Disclaimer: The Twilight characters aren't mine; I only like to color them in a little.

* * *

Part 4

The raging pounding of my heart terrified me. I knew it wasn't possible that it could endure the speed at which it thumped for much longer. If it stopped, I would die. Its wild beating had been the only reassurance that I was still alive, if that's what this state of torture was. It began to beat faster, like it was running away from me, trying to beat right out of my chest. I couldn't possibly let it go. I needed my heart; it held all I had left of her inside of it.

My hands clawed at my chest, determined to hold on to it, to not let it get away. I felt fabric shredding between my fingers as my chest arched in a final staggering explosion of pain before my heart finally..._died_. Surrendering, its lonely, painful march finally over.

Disappointingly, death hadn't brought me the relief I had so often wished for, so often dreamt of, when I was lost in my familiar black oblivion. I knew I was still conscious on some level, and therefore, still trapped in some plane of existence that kept me separated from her._ That _truth was far worse than anything I could possibly be facing now; it proved to me that Heaven was but a dream, and I'd learned that dreams were not to be trusted.

I gasped a desperate breath in shock, expecting the sensation of death to overcome me. Strangely, it didn't, and I belatedly wondered how I was able to still breathe if my heart wasn't beating. Then I realized that I could _taste_ the air. A dozen flavors ran through my head; candle wax, soot from the fire that I could see glowing from the corner of the room, the earthy scent of old bricks and the heady aroma of something else I couldn't quite place. It was strong and not too far away, and it teased me with memories of warm mutton. I sat up, absorbed by the possibility of finding the source of the scent and for the first time, took in my surroundings.

The room I found myself in was well appointed. The bed was ornately carved; a blue coverlet draped gracefully over the mattress. To my left, there was a dresser in the corner of the room. A writing desk and chair were facing the wall to my right. The cold, stone floor was covered with a plush Persian rug, and a blue upholstered chair sat near the fireplace. It seemed almost cozy, and it was certainly not what I expected Hell to look like.

The fact that I didn't recognize my surroundings made me extremely uneasy. Nervous and incredibly alert, I looked around the room and tried to make sense of where I was. Something was..._different, _but I couldn't quite place exactly _what_ the difference was. For one thing, everything was crystal clear. I could see better than I had ever been able to in the past. My vision had never been perfect, and the richness of the colors I was seeing amazed me. In particular, the fire was fascinating; the angry red edges of the flames leapt and danced while the more solid and stoic blue flames tenaciously devoured the wood. There was another color, one I couldn't place, that danced beneath the indigo blue; it shimmered with rainbow luminescence as the wood cracked and was consumed by their beauty. The heat radiating from the fireplace seemed too hot to me, which was odd. Fire was fire, its temperature relatively constant, so why wasn't I able to feel comfortable standing so close to it? Its warmth should have been comforting, but my instincts were telling me to keep my distance from the flames.

I put my hand out before me, testing the distance at which the heat became too much to bear, and suddenly noticed the unnaturally pale color of my skin. I must have been much more ill than I had realized. Looking around the room, I saw a mirror on the dresser and moved toward it, curious as to what my face must look like. However, the closer I moved toward the mirror, the more my pace subconsciously slowed. Part of me screamed a warning, telling me not to look, and another, much larger part of me already knew that something was very, very wrong. I was halfway to the dresser, the voice becoming more insistent, more urgent. Conflict raged within me. My hand reached out reluctantly, driven by my mind demanding an explanation for the unexplainable situation I found myself in. Somehow, I knew part of that explanation would look back at me in the mirror. I forced my hand to move, and my fingers plucked the mirror up by its wooden handle. I closed my eyes and brought the mirror up before my face, bracing myself as I slowly lifted my lids.

Staring back at me, wide-eyed in the glowing firelight, were two brilliant and flaming crimson eyes set in a ghostly pale face that was too angular and perfect to be mine. The skin was so pale that the purple veins were clearly visible. Yet, there was something recognizable in the cheekbones set high and proud curve of the red lips. And the eyes, despite their horrifying color, spoke to me with a wisdom beyond their years. They silently whispered back to me the astonishment I felt as understanding began to dawn on me. My fingers relaxed in shock, and the mirror slipped from my hands, shattering around my feet. I knew what I was; what I had become. Comprehension crept over me and I shuddered with a sudden chill. My red eyes could only mean one thing, I had become the very legend I'd scoffed at.

Signore Aro entered the room, flanked by a small, brunette woman who was touching the Signore's shoulder; the other was an imposing, dark-haired man. All wore long dark robes, but the Signore's were the darkest.

"Alec," Signore Aro cooed as he came forward. "Surely this is confusing and you must have many questions."  
I did have many questions, such as why did he look so much older to me now than before? And why did he reek of that delectable scent that inspired an immediate increase of bitter saliva in my mouth?

"Where is Jane?" I asked first. That was the most important question.

"She is here," he said smoothly.

"May I see her?"

"Not at this time, no," he replied calmly, inspiring a low impatient growl to rumble in my parched throat. The woman touching him nervously moved closer to his side.

"Why not?" I asked firmly.

"I sense hostility in you, young friend. That could be dangerous for you, and for Jane."

"Did Jane know what fate was in store for her? Did she know you were turning us into this?" I accused with disgust.

"On the contrary Alec, your sister was fully aware of the truth. In fact, she has taken to her new life quite easily and with surprising...enthusiasm. Everyone here has free will," he said, and I involuntarily hissed at what could only be a lie; I had been given no choice. No one asked if I agreed to an eternity of damnation as a sinner against the laws of nature, and therefore, God.

"I find that hard to believe," I said, my distrust of him blatantly obvious in my tone.

"Do you?" he asked with piercing eyes fixed on mine.

My angry and disgusted gaze fell to the floor. The habit of automatically defending her was still hard to quell, it had become so second nature it required no active thought on my part. Yet, I was unable to ignore the facts I'd heard during the trial.

"Jane is a very capable addition to our family," he murmured, his smug smile dripping with pride for Jane.

His full meaning was not lost on me; by capable, he meant murderous. His words slithered like a venomous serpent into my mind, filling it with a myriad of horrifying and grotesque images. Jane, reveling in what she now was. Jane, taking people in the woods like the Stregoni would. Jane, feeding off of what she used to be; a wolf slaying helpless rabbits in the forest. Signore Aro didn't have to tell me she had taken to being a murderer with finesse. I learned at the trial, she'd had that capacity all along. I now understood that Jane's heart was black long before it had stopped beating.

My lip quivered and I felt as though I could cry. Try as I might, it was difficult to blame Jane for who she was. She was my father's daughter; he taught her no other way. Had we been born to different parents, Jane might have grown to be as innocent and righteous a maid as ever prayed to the blessed Virgin. But father robbed us both of our chance for innocence and normality.

A low chuckle from Signore Aro brought me from my thoughts, and as I watched a smile play about his thin lips, a suspicion began to grow in my mind. His pride in Jane was evident as he talked of her, like he was speaking of a newly acquired gem he'd been searching for. I saw no twinkle of love or genuine concern in his eye when he spoke of her, only acquisition.

"What is your real interest in my sister?" I questioned. It was difficult to hold the snarl in the back of my throat at bay.

"Your tone suggests something insidious, my dear boy." I made no reply, and let him infer what he would.

He moved toward the chair near the fireplace and casually sat own, the women moved with him. "I simply couldn't bear the thought of the two of you being sacrificed in the name of the Church. I saw no crime in your sister's actions. I spoke with Jane and offered you a home with us. She was most grateful to accept my invitation."

"I didn't accept."

He sighed and rose from the chair, coming to me and taking my hand. "Alec, in time, I know that you will be happy with us. Look to the future, for I sense you will be a great man among us. Jane was only protecting you; she loves you very much."

I didn't answer; I only stared dejectedly at the floor. In that moment, I was too overwhelmed to know my own feelings.

"Your thirst must be difficult to manage. If you'll come with me, I'm sure we can make you more comfortable," he suggested, gracefully changing the subject to a much more disturbing one.

"No thank you, " I answered, revolted by the suggestion.

"In that case, young friend, I'll leave you to your thoughts. Should you have need of anything, you have but to ask." With that, he and his entourage departed the room.

I spent the days in sullen solitude. I refused to feed and kept myself jailed in my bedchamber. It was impossible for me to…nourish…myself the way those around me did. But no matter how I tried to distract myself, or ignore it, the aroma drove me to madness. After many days of denying myself and growing weakness, I finally relented. I requested a goblet be brought to me in my bedchamber.

It was Jane that brought me a large silver goblet, filled to the brim with the thick scarlet liquid. The scent was overwhelming as Jane brought it closer, but that didn't help me forget where it _came_ from. Jane sat beside me on the edge of the bed, her feet swinging gaily. She looked well, and more beautiful than before; she had the same sharp angular features and alabaster skin of everyone in the castle. She seemed to glow, and it was because she was happy and well cared for. Even the telltale vermillion eyes suited her.

She handed me the goblet. "Doesn't it smell divine?"

"Yes," I admitted with reluctance, and took the goblet from her with even greater reluctance. I felt as though once I drank it, there was no more hiding from the truth.

"Pretend it's wine. I promise you'll like it," Jane encouraged. I grimaced at her and set the goblet down on the table beside the bed.

"I'll try it later," I promised half-heartedly.

"It's much better when it's warm."

"Stop!" I yelled, covering my ears with my hands. Her attitude was too cavalier, too cold, too enthusiastic, just as Signore Aro had said.

She pulled my hands away from my ears and held them in her lap, tenderly stroking them to calm me. It was an old trick, and one that was having little effect. "Master Aro tells me you aren't happy here. Why not?"

"_Master_ Aro?"

"He is our father now, Alec. We owe him our lives."

"For my part, I'd prefer death."

"How can you speak so?" Jane cried, jumping up in front of me. "We are immortal and rich," she moved closer her voice dropping, "We can see like eagles and are as strong as giants." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And I'm special, Alec."

"What do you mean, special?"

"I can make people feel pain, and not even touch them!" Her eyes gleamed with _enthusiasm_.

"You take pride in such a talent?" I accused, not trying to hide my disappointment.

"We are respected among them, brother. Master Aro suspects you will have great gifts as well! You and I will be powerful, and together. Always. No one can hurt you anymore. I won't let them."

She spoke this last oath with a depth of conviction I'd never heard in her voice, and I ceased to be angry with her. With each lifeless breath I took, I exhaled some of my resentment at Jane for choosing my eternity for me. She was my sister, my only link to the past, and she had always been my companion in arms; deflecting and strategizing to save one another. We were survivors, and that's all Jane knew. She was faced with an extraordinary situation, and she took extreme action to keep us alive. I couldn't fault her logic; I only regretted its necessity.

Nor was I angry with Jane for killing our father. It would be hypocritical of me to blame her for something that I'd secretly prayed would happen naturally. In actuality, she'd done me a service; his murder was the only comfort I had. At least Cesca's soul could rest at peace, even if mine never would. I would never have been happy living without Cesca, and Jane had no hand in her death. That was all my own doing.

I questioned all my past actions, wondering how things _might_ have been. I berated myself for ever speaking to Cesca. If I'd kept my thoughts on my responsibilities instead of chasing after her, she might still be alive. Involving her in my life was a dream I had no right to pursue. It was the sin I would spend eternity repenting for. I felt as though being dammed to this Hell was my penance for it was I who'd disgraced Cesca's virtue.

My eyes went to the elegant silver goblet an arm's length away. Its contents had long since cooled, and I wondered if, in drinking it cold, I'd be forcing myself to suffer a little more for her sake. I took the goblet up and watched Jane's eyes sparkle. There was no denying the intoxicating scent as I brought the challis to my lips. The darkest sins always taste sweetest, and as I drained the cup, I prayed to my beloved to commend my soul to God.

The End

* * *

Now for gushing over people I owe lots of candy to for helping me complete this effing story…

I could never have finished this damn fic if not for LightStarDusting and TheHeartOfLife. They have been very loving and patient and pretty with me, and they make my babbling much prettier for you, trust. Thank you, wives. I love you.

Special thanks to a few special people; pre-readers IzzzySprinkles and Starshinedown, and ventiturtl for her curiosity about Alec. Thanks, ladies. hearts.

Thank you all for reading!


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